


picnic

by gingersnapdragon



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Incest, M/M, Parent/Child Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-31
Updated: 2011-12-31
Packaged: 2017-10-28 13:24:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/308303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gingersnapdragon/pseuds/gingersnapdragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>malcolm and carver have a nice date. at home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	picnic

One thing about your lover also being your son is the restriction on things like public displays of affection. And even though Garrett is the one who is Malcolm’s spitting image, Carver got enough of him that there’s no hope of not being recognized for what they are, even far away in another town. The sneaking around in the shadows makes things exciting, but as months wear on and this thing with Carver becomes firmer, more solid, more _normal_ , Malcolm wishes the excitement were a choice, not a requirement. Takes some of the spice out of it.

There’s nothing to be done for it. Theirs is a permanent affair, a scandal that will never become acceptable, and as such, concessions have to be made in the area of romance. Concessions, Malcolm reminds himself, not surrender.

They haven’t really done anything special since Garrett moved out with Anders, so Malcolm understands Carver’s confusion when he comes in to a house that’s mostly dark except the warm glow coming from the living room – the fireplace and a half-dozen candles around the edges of an old tablecloth. A bottle of wine waits on one checkered corner, gleaming in the golden glow, and Carver pauses in the door, bookbag on his shoulder, gym bag in his hand. Malcolm can tell even in the low light that his hair is wet, curling over his forehead. He took a shower before he left practice, then, and Malcolm smiles at the thought of smelling his fresh skin.

“Uh, Dad? What’s going on?”

Malcolm snorts. Garrett would have known immediately, sly smirk and a thumb in his belt loop, but Carver is a different beast. Malcolm loves both of his sons, but it’s no surprise to him that one of them has gone on to play house with his own boyfriend while the other stands in the doorway, baffled and aroused.

“Put your bags up and come sit down,” Malcolm says. “We’ll have dinner in here tonight.”

Carver still looks confused, and Malcolm thinks he mouthes _On the floor?_ But he doesn’t ask out loud, so Malcolm lets it slide. When Carver comes back, he sits farther away than Malcolm would like, but Malcolm decides to let him have his space – for now. Dinner is just a simple pasta dish, white wine sauce and light vegetables mixed in, but Carver devours it like he’s starving. And after practice, maybe he is. After his third helping, he groans and sets his plate down, leaning into Malcolm’s space now, happy and sated, and maybe a bit drunk. He’s on his third glass of wine as well, and he’s not used to drinking the stuff.

Malcolm reaches over and brushes his still-damp bangs back, one thumb tracing the beloved lines of his son’s face, and Carver smiles, pliable but still confused.

“What’s all this about?” he finally asks, a question he hasn’t voiced since before they started eating.

“I just thought it might be nice to have a romantic date,” Malcolm says, and he tries to ignore the way worry and tension curl in his belly. What if Carver thinks that’s stupid? What if what’s between them is just sex and a twisted kind of parental affection, not the kinds of feelings that Malcolm is starting to feel? (And how ridiculous would that be, falling in love with his own son? He can’t decide if it’s better or worse than putting his cock up his ass.)

“That’s…that’s nice,” Carver says, flush obvious even in the low light. He ducks his head, but Malcolm catches his chin and tilts his face up, leaning in for a kiss. Carver closes his eyes and melts into the contact, and Malcolm thinks he might have to break out a bottle of wine more often. More corruption; more bad parenting. But the sweetness of Carver’s mouth under his, slowly being coaxed out of urgency and into just enjoying long, deep kisses, is enough to drown out Malcolm’s doubts and guilt.

“Dad,” Carver whispers when they break apart, eyes heavy-lidded, voice soft and slurred. “M-make…” He trails off, choked by his own words, and finally says, “F-fuck me, please.”

Despite the phrasing, Malcolm knows that what he wants isn’t a fast, dirty fuck on the floor, and he takes his time undressing them both, piece by piece, his mouth tasting every inch of Carver’s firm, smooth flesh that he can. _Seventeen_. So young. Malcolm has so much to feel guilty for.

He doesn’t fuck Carver, not right away; he takes his time touching and kissing, tonguing him open until he writhes, pressing inside him with loving fingers. Carver is red and sweaty, twisting on the carpet, by the time Malcolm takes himself in hand and pushes in, so slow, so gentle, shaking with his own restraint.

“F-fuck,” Carver whimpers, drawing his knees up to take his father’s cock farther into his body. “ _Please_.” They’ve done this enough that Carver’s learned how to hook his ankles over Malcolm’s lower back, but they haven’t done it so much that Malcolm is used to the pressure of Carver’s heels against his ass or the heat of his body or the way he willingly takes every thrust and asks for more. “Please,” he says again, starting to fuck back now, clinging and desperate like he can’t get Malcolm far enough inside.

“You’ve got it,” Malcolm pants, strokes long and deep, and Carver throws back his head and groans. “You’ve got me.”

“Love you.” Carver gasps and convulses, still so young, still so quick to come, and his fingers dig into Malcolm’s shoulders. “Love you so much…Daddy!”

And Malcolm’s not young but he’s just a man and there’s only so much he can take, and he comes inside his son, shuddering, shaking, growling. His hips keep thrusting even after his cock is empty, as if he’s unconsciously trying to bury himself there forever. He finally collapses, having just enough sense to brace himself on his elbows so he doesn’t crush his son – although Carver’s bigger than he is through the chest these days.

Carver kisses him on the forehead, and Malcolm thinks he feels a hesitation in the touch. He lifts his face and smiles down at Carver’s exhausted expression. “I love you too,” he says, and Carver’s lips tilt upward, just barely, before he leans up for a kiss.


End file.
